Gust Front

«That's fine, ma'am,» answered Sharon. «That was my call as well. Bosun?»

«I'll break the clamps out of stores, mum.»

«We'll get started on getting these removed.» She shook her head again. Working EVA was hard under any condition; working EVA with the specter of suddenly being a target was for the birds.

She turned to the Indowy technician, to ask his help in removing the device, but stopped as her eyes widened.

It was a sight she never expected to see with her naked eyes, and one she expected she would never see again, as the Posleen Battle Dodecahedron translated out of hyperspace. The tear in reality caused localized energy buildups that caused distortion of the stars behind it, so the ship seemed to almost appear out of «cloak,» with a ripple like water. The surface of the ship sparkled for a moment more with static electricity discharges and then it was there, fully emerged and seemingly close enough to touch.

«Emergence,» yelled the sensor tech, startled out of a fatigued half doze. «Angle two-nine-four, mark five!» His eyes bulged at the distance reading. «Four thousand meters!»

«Lock-on,» called Tactical, the weapons tracking lidar and sub-space detectors locking onto the gigantic signal.

«Fire,» snapped Captain Weston, automatically. Then her eyes flew wide open. «Belay that order!»

But it was an eternity too late. The weapons tech had been on duty for eighteen straight hours and fire orders were a reaction that bypassed the brain. His thumb had already flipped up the safety cover and depressed the switch.

A pyrotechnic gas generator fired as the clamps holding the missile flew open. The gas pushed the eighteen-foot weapon far enough away from the ship that it was safe for it to kick in its inertial thrusters and antimatter conversion rocket.

Safe for the ship. But not safe for the weapon installation team. Or the pod of antimatter missiles they were installing.

CHAPTER 58

The White House, Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

0526 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

«Mr. President, it's time to leave,» said the chief of the Secret Service Detail.

Thomas Edwards stared at the view-screen on the wall of the Situation Room. The occasional flickers of red across Fairfax County were getting closer and closer to the Fairfax Parkway. A solid bar represented the advancing Posleen chasing the remnants of Ninth and Tenth Corps up U.S. 28. He assumed that once they reached U.S. 29 and I-66 they would turn east towards D.C. and the nearest bridges. Unless the scattered forces could outrun the Posleen to the bridges, none of them would survive.

He had watched Monsoon Thunder. He knew all about retreats under fire. And ignominious defeat. He had been sure that those well-supplied and prepared corps could face the Posleen and live. All of his advisors had been sure. And he and they had been wrong. Completely and totally wrong. And it had led to the worst military disaster in American history.

And that was not the worst of it.

The view-screen also showed that the roads were packed with refugees. Most of them were in Alexandria or almost across the Potomac, but the distance between them and the enemy was reducing on a minute-by-minute basis. Soon the first reports of refugee columns overrun by the Posleen would come in. And he could do nothing about it.

«I'm sorry,» he whispered to himself.

«Shit happens, Mr. President,» said an unexpected voice.

The President looked at the doorway. The Secret Service chief was accompanied by Marine Captain Hadcraft, commander of the Guard Force. The hulking combat armor seemed totally out of place in the White House.

«Shit like this doesn't happen,» snapped the President. «Not here. Not to us.»

«What? You thought because this was Earth it would be different?» asked the captain with a faint note of scorn. «Well, welcome to our world, sir.»

The President turned his chair to look fully at the Marine, who was being glared at by the Detail chief. Since the Marines were really loaners from the Fleet, there was a certain amount of friction between them and the Secret Service, friction that contradicted tradition.

The Marines had protected the American President since the days of John Adams. They had a longer and deeper tradition of it than even the Secret Service. But the Service had always treated them as the hired help. It was the Marines who held the perimeters while the Service took the close-in Protection detail.

With the splitting of the Marines to the Fleet, the Detail had assumed that they would take over full responsibility for Presidential protection. Instead, perso

American ACS perso

On acceptance, the troopers would be sent, along with their suits, back to Earth. After a brief «refresher» course at Parris Island, they were sworn in as United States Marines, outfitted with new Marine Dress Blues and sent to D.C.

Then they could chase the girls, or boys as the case might be, turn their noses up at the garritroopers of the Old Guard and generally start to decompress.

However, they were still Fleet perso

Then there was the problem of divided loyalty. The Fleet did not in fact require a person to renounce their citizenship, but had a strong sentiment against nationalism. And Fleet oaths were overriding. Under the laws of the Federation, the Marines were still under Fleet orders and answered only to the Fleet, just like any other ACS unit.

The Marines knew better. Some of them had applied to get away from Barwhon, where the hell of battle in the swamp ate away at the soul day by day. But most were there because they were, at heart, Americans and proud to defend the country's chief executive. But the incredible cost of the unit and its ambiguous loyalty was a cancer that ate at the Detail.

The President thought about all of that as he contemplated the Marine captain. The captain was the holder of the Silver Star and the Fleet Cross. The Star was an award retained by the Fleet in deference to the heavy American influence. The Cross was the equivalent of the Distinguished Service Cross.

No one had been so openly scornful of him in months. It just didn't happen to a President. On the other hand, this was a Marine who had «seen the elephant». He was entitled.

«Yeah,» husked the President. His smooth, well-trained voice was gone after hours of talking. He had been awake for nearly thirty-six hours and felt like a week-dead corpse. «Yeah,» he repeated, clearing his throat. «I did. Everybody told me that the terrain and the situation was right. It was just a matter of trying.»

The suits, in deference to their position, displayed the seal of the President when in noncombat mode. But with the faceted helmet on, a seal revealed no emotion. The only hint was in the tone. «As I said, welcome to our world, Mr. President. We come back here to «The World» and listen to the commentators and bunker generals talk about how 'mobile warfare' and 'focal terrain' will defeat the Posleen. And we laugh. And get drunk.